


touched by angels (though i fall out of grace)

by enby_gerrydelano (Starful_nights)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast), Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge - My Chemical Romance (Album)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical The Beholding Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical The Corruption Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical The End Content (The Magnus Archives), Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, can't believe i almost forgot that. murder is going to be Very relevant in this folks, from s5 onwards plus some changes overall, in which canon is an unsuspecting mind and i am the Spiral, loosely based on three cheers for sweet revenge, oliver is a loveable bastard in this tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:56:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29824581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starful_nights/pseuds/enby_gerrydelano
Summary: “I can even bring Martin back to you, however against my very nature it goes, as long as you pay the price the End wants from you,” Oliver continued, seemingly not hearing him.“What’s the price?” The compulsion cut through Oliver’s rambling.Oliver smiled slowly, and it was the grin of a skull staring down at its murderer from beyond the grave.“A thousand souls.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Oliver Banks & Helen Richardson, Oliver Banks & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, friends is pushing it but. yeah
Comments: 6
Kudos: 4





	1. what's the worst that i can say?

**Author's Note:**

> canon divergence: from s5 onwards so far, but i'll edit this once the other things come up. i came up with this at around 193 i think? and apparently it takes me two to three weeks to even start planning and writing so uh. not very compliant with the stuff we know after that.
> 
>  **WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER:** the Eye (entity), including mentions of the sky being replaced by eyes, Jon being forced to make a statement and compulsion; offscreen major character death; mentions of murder; the Corruption (Entity), just flies for this chapter.
> 
> if i missed anything, don't hesitate to let me know!
> 
> fic title from i never told you what i do for a living by my chemical romance.   
> chapter title form helena also by my chemical romance.

The sky was staring at the Archivist. The Archivist was very firmly avoiding the sky’s gaze, instead focusing on a small patch of grass next to him. It was safer than looking at the sky, or looking at the cottage, the first and maybe only place he ever actually found temporary peace, or, even worse, looking at the path leading up to the cottage where the corpse of Martin Blackwood had disappeared from a few minutes earlier, only seconds after the sky started to stare.

He supposed Martin was lucky, in a way. He didn’t get back to the house, never knew with certainty that Jon had caused this, this  _ hellscape _ , and didn’t get sucked into a fear domain, instead getting painlessly destroyed when the Door opened. He was simply right in the way of the Entities and was metaphorically trampled. Those were the best anyone could hope for in these circumstances, and Jon knew he should feel better knowing that. 

And yet. 

Before he had any more time to think, to water the decaying grass with more tears, his body seized. A statement channeled its way through him about the people of this tiny village he grew to love, and the static-filled words slipped from his mouth like quicksilver while tears continued to flow from his eyes. The tape recorder didn’t even bother to click off once he finished and all but crumpled, and he didn’t even bother to care.

Something that would’ve passed for a day or three had passed since the new world began, and yet the Archivist didn’t move, drinking in the fear and hating himself for every second of satisfaction. 

The feeling of death shouldn’t have been a surprise, nightmare world and all, but up until now Jon was under the impression that after Oliver Banks cleared away Martin’s body and muttered a hello and congratulations for ‘becoming the antichrist’, he would go back to his domain and never bother him again. (For someone near-omniscient, he was very prone to being surprised.)

“Hello, Archivist.”

“What do you  _ want _ , Oliver?”

“You to stop moping, first of all,” Oliver snorted. He looked more...fancy than the last time Jon saw him, in an elegant all-white three-piece suit and diamond jewelry that may or may not have been in the shape of skulls, something he suspected Oliver would deny when asked about. “I take it you don’t like this new world you created?”

“Not especially, no. And it was more Jonah Magnus than me.”

“Yeah, that’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about. This world that he created. I think it would be simpler if you came over to my domain, briefly. Took a statement. I--well, Helen--could take you back here after, if you want. It doesn’t matter to me either way, I just want Jonah Magnus to  _ finally _ stop evading his fate.”

“What?”

Oliver smiled grimly. “I want Magnus dead, and I think so do you. I like this world, as it will have a definite end, with no new people being born or created otherwise, so I can’t help you with that, but Magnus...he’s a perversion of the laws of life and death.”

Jon replied with the only thing he could think of, that was slightly off-topic as usual. One of these days he would actually have all the answers. “What about Simon Fairchild? He’s been alive for millennia, too.”

“Simon’s like that because of the Vast, that’s...better, and it’s not like he has control over it. And he has a fixed lifespan--had, anyways, before you did this. Magnus, though, has had a fear of Terminus all his life and has used his patron in ways he wasn’t supposed to, didn’t just lengthen his life but took new vessels. The bastard.”

“So you want me to kill Jonah Magnus.”

“Well, yes...but also not exactly. Just come and listen to my statement, you seem to be in need of one and actually explaining things isn’t as fun and a lot more confusing.”

Jon weighed up his options and realised he didn’t really have any. Basically-demigod or not, Oliver and Helen could still harm him, especially if they were working together. Plus, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. 

“Okay.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Statement ends.” Jon’s head spun, and not just from the side effects of the Distortion-travel. So this world was finite, like Oliver said before, and would end in however long it took for all of them to die. Interesting, he thought, then almost collapsed inside Helen, who he hadn’t even noticed he stumbled inside of. Fucking Spiral. 

“So, shall we come to an arrangement?” Oliver asked, reappearing by his side. 

“Get me out of the damn corridors, first, and tell me what I even need to agree on.”

“Yeah, makes sense you don’t want to make deals here,” Oliver said easily. “Helen, just put us down wherever.”

“No, wait--”

But he and Oliver were already standing in the middle of a train car that, judging from the sheer amount of flies flying in and out of everywhere, including the ground, was a Corruption domain. 

“Oh, ew,” Oliver said, wrinkling his nose. “Helen, what the fuck?” But the yellow wooden door was already replaced by the regular door of the compartment, and Oliver’s long string of curses that were entirely unfitting of someone dressed this nicely were drowned out by the buzzing. “Jon, you want to use your connection to the magic eyeball to tell us where the fuck we are anytime soon?”

The knowledge was already in Jon’s brain before he could even finish the sigh. 

“Some railroad in America. Shall I bore you with the specifics? I can tell you the exact coordinates if you want.”

“No need,” Oliver sighted, swatting a few (dozen) flies away. “I hate you Eye types. Can we talk now? I suspect I’ll be able to get you back to the Corpse Routes.”

“Fine. What do you want from me? Jonah Magnus dead?”

“Yes. I also want this world to end forever faster. Well, technically Terminus wants it, but that doesn’t really matter anymore in my case.”

“And I’m needed for what, exactly?”

“I can even bring Martin back to you, however against my very nature it goes, as long as you pay the price the End wants from you,” Oliver continued, seemingly not hearing him. 

“ **_What’s the price?_ ** ” The compulsion cut through Oliver’s rambling. 

Oliver smiled slowly, and it was the grin of a skull staring down at its murderer from beyond the grave. 

“A thousand souls.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> statement referenced in this chapter: MAG 168 (roots)


	2. the murder scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is late i had to redo my entire outline for this lol  
> anyways some of the dialogue is from mag 165 (revolutions)!  
> also if any of you listen to the penumbra podcast i imagined Cameron Moss to have nureyev's voice just an fyi
> 
> **WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER:** The Corruption (entity), including: flies (a LOT of flies), descriptions of rotting, and mentions of disease; canon-typical 'smiting', threats of replacing people (Not-Them typical)
> 
> (as always lmk if i missed anything!)
> 
> chapter title from give 'em hell, kid by mcr

“I’m not killing anyone.”

“It’s more...putting them out of their misery,” Oliver said, fighting a smile like it was a private joke. “Now, I really have to go. Have fun killing!”

“I haven’t agreed yet!” 

“Oh, but you will.”

Jon paused. Was getting Martin back worth all of those people? A thousand lives for one? (A thousand suffering lives for one?) (He was the chosen one of the closest thing this place had to a god. He could do whatever he wanted.) 

“I…”

“I give you until you manage to get out of here to decide. Helen will probably be waiting after you take your first victim. If she isn’t there, take this. Toodles.” And with that, he teleported away, back to the Corpse Routes, leaving Jon with a burning dilemma, a skull that seemed very old and uncared-for, judging by the dust and cobwebs, and a bunch of flies that only just shied away from his skin. Asshole. 

He sat down on one of the less-rotted seats and tried to open a window. It didn’t work, unsurprisingly. Still, he had much to think about, and the flies seemed to leave him alone for now.

He took the opportunity to look around, and immediately regretted it. The seats were made of... _ something _ very rotting, and Jon wasn’t about to Know what it was if he had any say in it. They had ugly patterns, even by his standards, and were--naturally--crawling with flies that flew away for a second or two if he moved, and came back to within a few inches of his skin after. 

The Eye supplied him with a few additional pieces of information, each more disgusting than the next, but his heart wasn’t in it and the rush of knowledge was muted. Maybe it was because he felt that his patron was holding back for the Statement, maybe it was the dilemma he was well aware he was avoiding. Or maybe it was the person he spotted in the meantime, trying and failing to fight back the flies while trying and failing to fight back tears, knowing he couldn’t do anything about it. Who knows?

The person’s name was Amelie, and e had forgotten eir last name years ago when encountering a Stranger. Despite this, apparently e wasn’t scared of the Stranger at all. Flies, though...flies and rot and disease scared em more than funhouse mirrors and stolen pieces of identity ever would. Taking the Statement of this train from em would be so much more satisfying, which was counterintuitive, since the full statement had the potential to have more people. Still, was Jon dying to take eir Statement, Knowledge being beamed directly through his brain and into the tape seeming less appetizing by the second? Definitely. It was like a good, healthy meal, if slightly bland, against something less nutritious but infinitely more tasty. It was probably because it directly impacted someone other than the general fear-siphoning, he realised, stomach turning over, and he vowed not to take it from em, however tempting it may seem. It wasn’t like he  _ needed _ a Statement yet, anyway. 

Still, it seemed the Beholding had other plans regarding his Statement needs, and he wasn’t even surprised when he heard the tape recorder click on. He groaned when he realised the meaning of the words perching on the tip of his tongue. It was about Amelie. Of course. He managed a quick ‘Sorry’ before the words that were starting to taste like static started to escape his mouth and Amelie was forced to listen to eir torment and reasons to fear the Rot in detail. Meanwhile, because God forbid Jon might not harm someone that much, the flies that flew away from Jon’s vicinity the moment his familiar static could be felt in the teeth of everyone around found refuge on em. (And in em, as it were, climbing into eir nostrils and mouth and ears and spreading their disease that held the promise of eventually making em part of the seats, blending into the strangely soft patterns of human remains that pulsed and oozed and were covered, oh so covered in flies--)

"Statement ends." Thank whatever deity might still be out there after all this. "I am...so sorry, Amelie."

"Oh,  _ fuck _ off."

They lapsed back into uncompanionable silence, some of the flies settling back around Jon. 

Unfortunately, this gave him ample time to think. After a while his thoughts always turned from the proposed deal to Martin, and after that to fighting off the flies that seemed to be intent on flying into his mouth with every sob. 

Martin...wonderful, wonderful Martin who cared for him and after a while let Jon care for him in return, beautiful Martin who always pretended not to see Jon borrow his jumpers, Martin, whose tea was the best in the world…

(Maybe he was worth it. Maybe having a single moment of true peace and happiness was worth it. Maybe after all he was through, it would be what he deserved…)

Jon shook his head. No, he wouldn’t do this. He couldn’t. (But what if…)

**Martin** . Was it worth it, getting the last Mark for such a short amount of time spent together? Not even getting to go through the apocalypse with each other by their sides? Was freeing a thousand people--in a very twisted sense of the world nonetheless, but until he could figure out how to possibly undo this, it was the best he had--really that bad?

The smell of another avatar distracted him from his moral dilemma. This was something he later will both curse and thank, but for now all he felt was a mixture of rage and resignation, as was beginning to become the norm. 

Cameron Moss. He was a lot more elegant than you’d expect from someone infested with flies, but the corruption  _ did _ have a tendency to claim the rich, after all. And  _ wow _ , was he infested-- he was almost as bad as Jane Prentiss, if a little less deadly-looking. A little.

“Oh, hello, Archivist,” he laughed upon entering the carriage. It was a pleasant laugh--would have been a pleasant laugh if not for the flies buzzing out of his mouth. “I see you’ve come and visited my realm, what an honour. What do you think? Fascinating how slowly people melt into the seats, isn’t it?” 

Jon didn’t dignify this with an answer, but he noted with an annoyance that his disgust was feeding Moss. 

“You know, I think you deserve a demonstration, Archivist. Oh my, I see you have someone with you! Carl over there cannot be helped anymore--” with that, he gestured at something vaguely human-shaped that Jon realised was another of his victims--”but I think Amelie over here might be a good one for you. Sate your hunger.”

“Leave em alone,” Jon said, almost growled. Moss took a step back, his good-natured mask slipping for a second. “I already took eir statement.”

Moss’s eyes hardened. 

“Oh, did you now? Lovely, though most people would usually ask before wandering in someone else’s domain and picking and choosing what they see fit, but nothing less from the Ceaseless Watcher’s special little boy, I suppose,” He said bitterly. “In that case, I’d rather you  _ get off my train _ . Filth knows you’ve fed off it enough. I only offered in an attempt of hospitality. A stop is coming soon. I expect you to help me peel Carl off the seats. Keep things...fresh, so to speak. We can’t have existence be boring. Plus, he’s still alive. And what's fear without hope?” His laugh returned, but it wasn’t as lively as before, dripping with barely-disguised animosity. Great. Just what he needed, another enemy.

“I’m not helping you.”

“Your disgust would be well-appreciated, Archivist,” Moss tutted. “It’s only fair.”

“The concept disgusts me enough, I think.”

Moss sighed overdramatically.

“I  _ suppose _ it may count. Still, at least let me show you a vision of what melting into the seats may feel like. You Eye freaks love that kind of thing, don’t you?”

“I-”

“I would like to remind you that my victims no longer know time. To them it’s the same thing if we stop now or in an eternity. You, Archivist, on the other hand, seem to be in a hurry.”

“If you must,” Jon sighed.

It was...it would be best to say it was worse than the Statement and leave it at that.  _ Jon _ certainly never wanted to think about it ever again. Still, once it was over, the train stopped, so maybe it was worth it. Maybe. (No, it wasn’t. Ew.)

He tried and failed not to think about Amelie as the train left, and focused every firmly on the ground lest he see the rotting victims try to exit the train station, only to find themselves right back at the platform when it came around again. A two-part hell. Very clever, he found himself thinking, and decided to focus on the skull instead. It was a gift from Oliver, so it probably had some End powers but why? Or it could have something to do with the Slaughter, based off this entire deal  _ which he was not going to do _ , he reminded himself, or maybe the Web, seeing as it was probably tangled in everything? Maybe if he found out who the skull belonged to…

Beholding once again proved that despite him being its favoured son, apparently, it did not like giving him any useful information, instead telling him that the skull was a few weeks short of 194 years old and its exact temperature (in degrees Kelvin, for some reason).

Typical.

It seemed he had nothing to do but move forwards, and hope that he’d find a straightforward way to get back...somewhere. What was he doing? Where would he even go? London? The tower was pretty obvious, any maybe he could kill Jonah without all that extra killing. Simple. 

It was a terrible plan, and he knew it, but it was better than nothing so he started walking. 

And walked, ignoring the rest of the enormous train station, covered with flies.

And walked.

And ended up by a merry-go-round. Fucking great. First Corruption, now the Stranger. This day could only just keep getting better and better, huh? (The fact that days didn’t really exist anymore was something he was trying to ignore.)

It had been…a while now. There was no way of telling how long, obviously, but he was getting hungry, the Eye was telling him random facts from the history of clowns and he was growing new eyes again, all focused at the merry-go round. 

He took the clue.

Who knew the Stranger was a poet? He wasn’t sure if it was any good, Martin was the poetry expert, not him, (Martin…), but it was definitely poetry. 

He wondered briefly if he knew the avatar of this place, though it was unlikely as this was Ameri...oh.

“My dearest colleague! I can’t believe you’re trying to pass through the neighbourhood and not say hello to dear old Sasha.”

“Fuck off.”

“Oh, you  _ wound _ me, Archivist. And we used to be so  _ close _ .”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Nothing to say! Well, you crush me, bury me in the foundations of your little temple for a year, and now you have nothing to say?”

“Leitner did that. And Peter released you. All I’ve done to you is to  _ not die _ .”

“Oh, and I would say that is quite rude enough,” she said, looking less amused by the second. This was becoming a pattern.

“Leave me alone. I won’t warn you again.”

“Oh, what will you do, Archivist? Stare me to death? As long as I don’t get you first. Or, better still, those few friends you have left. You’ll never know.”

The eye in the sky deemed itself useful for once, and Jon laughed.

“What’s so funny, Archivist?”

“You’re bold, I’ll give you that. Desperate for one last morsel of terror from me? A final sip before I realise you’re nothing? You can’t touch me, and you can’t touch my friends.” (It was strange to think he still had any, but he had no time to dwell on  _ that _ .) “You’re like everyone else here: ruled by the Eye,” he said, laughing slightly. She deserved this. “And you  _ hate _ it.” 

“Well of course you want to wallow in my shame like your voyeur master.Do you know how it feels? To be – anonymous? And yet known! To have all the sweetest dread I can create tainted by the relentless gaze of that damned Eye. I’ve suffered enough.”

“Pathetic.”

“Not as pathetic as your little friend when I  _ ate _ her life.”

Jon paused.

“What did you just say?” he asked, voice full of venom he didn’t know he was capable of achieving. 

“I-I’m sorry.” She sounded afraid. It was delicious.

“You were wrong, you know. There is more suffering than you can ever experience, so much more. The horror of your victims, their constant, senseless agony. Feel it now. Understand it. You have drawn out so much despair, and now finally, it’s your turn.  _**Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon this wretched thing**. _ ” 

“No, no, please, no!”

...and with that, she was gone. Simple as that. 

Jon stared at the pile of...something that looked like...static. Like if his eyes were cameras and the remains were something supernatural. Which they were, he supposed, but...it was strange, not seeing something like this. Not just like a blind spot, but like if its entire being was just that. Static. A place where the world just...stopped being. It hurt to look at it, courtesy of the Eye, so he didn’t. He just...went on. 

It took him a surprising amount of time to actually kill someone compared to when they started chasing him for it, he thought wryly, and fell into the yellow door that appeared under his feet. 

...then immediately fell out of it, once again at the Corpse Routes. 

“Hello, Jon!” Oliver said, waving cheerily. “Who’d you kill?”

“...Not-Sasha. But I didn’t-”

“Oh, that thing. No disrespect to the Stranger, but I always found the Not-Them nasty. Rude, too. I’d recommend going that way, nobody will miss the Spiral victims.”

“Oi!”

“You’re special, Helen.”

“But I didn’t agree to the-”

Oliver sighed. 

“Yes you did, Jon, when you smited--smote?--Smote Not-Sasha. That counts as a kill, only 999 to go!”

“But-”

“You can’t go back on a deal with Death, so don’t even try. Have fun!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> statament referenced in this chapter: MAG 165 (Revolutions). 
> 
> leave kudos or a comment if you enjoyed! (please?)

**Author's Note:**

> tentatively saying updates on wednesdays and maybe sundays sometimes? i have like. one and a half chapters already written and an actual genuine outline so im optimistic! also if you haven't guessed yet, this is going to be based on the story line for the album three cheers for sweet revenge by my chemical romance, so might want to check that out! i'm planning one chapter for each songs, though the lengths will vary quite a bit i think.


End file.
